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“Hey, lady, you got anything I’d like in there?”
The tap on my back startled me, and when I turned around, I laughed at the woman with curly red hair.
Augusta “Gus” Townsend, another of my fellow arts council members—and Savannah’s younger sister—had walked up just as I finished emptying all the totes and tucking them under the red skirt of my table. Roseland’s resident bohemian, Gus was a vision in blue that morning. She wore a denim jacket over a Wedgwood-blue floral blouse, a lace-trimmed denim prairie skirt, and embroidered denim ankle boots with chunky heels. Despite her frilly exterior, Gus was a serious artist who had received regional and national awards for her socially conscious collages—large-format pieces she made with “found objects.” Incorporating everything from plastic grocery sacks to used coffee filters and tea bags, her art was unlike any I’d seen before. Whether she was making a statement about the #MeToo movement or promoting environmental awareness, Gus admitted she always worked with a social issue in mind. She definitely wasn’t just a small-town artist anymore, so I was surprised to see her at the bazaar. Gus had long said she was no fan of “cattle call” crafts shows, as she called them, and I couldn’t remember ever having seen her at a Christmas bazaar before.
“Before you ask, no, I’m not here selling my artwork today.” Gus gave a mock shudder. “I’m volunteering at the Humane Society’s booth. That is, if we still get to have it in here.”
I was puzzled. The Humane Society was one of the bazaar’s original nonprofit exhibitors and had been involved since day one. Of course they would always have a booth. “What do you mean, ‘if’?”
“Atilla the Hun over there”—Gus motioned to Miranda—“said she thinks some of the pets don’t smell ‘clean enough’ to be inside this year and ordered us outdoors. She even suggested we keep them caged while they’re outside. But it’s kind of hard to encourage prospective pet owners to pet the animals and get to know them if they’re in a cage. Plus, it’s going to be awfully warm outside, and I don’t know how many people will want to stay out there when they could be inside with the air-conditioning. ”
That made sense, and Miranda wasn’t too smart if she banished one of the most popular attractions at the show. The puppies and kittens from the Humane Society were always a huge draw for the kids who came—kids whose parents spent money on admission, refreshments, games... and Christmas gifts like my jewelry. Miranda sure seemed to be stirring up a lot of bad blood.
“Do you think maybe she’s just worried about the success of the show this year?” I tried to think of any possible reason Miranda might be keeping such a tight rein on the Christmas bazaar, definitely more than we’d ever seen from leaders in the past.
Gerald Adams, the balding thirtysomething president of the Humane Society, walked up and nodded at me before addressing Gus. “Could you help us transport some of our four-legged friends? Some of them finally passed muster with Miranda.”
“I’ll be glad to.” Gus whirled around, clearly about to rush off with Gerald, then looked back at me. “Catch you later.”
I reminded her, “Don’t forget to stop back by if you get a chance. I made a lot of those dangling charm bracelets you like with special Christmas charms, just for this show.”
“Oh, save me one.” Gus bounced up and down. “Any one. I trust your judgment.” Then Gerald whisked her off for pet duty.
What a morning. I glanced at my watch. The show wouldn’t open for another hour, yet already there had been more drama than I could recall at any show in recent history. Sure, there was the year Santa’s elves had imbibed too much of the secret stash of eggnog and fell into the children’s face-painting tables, spewing eggnog onto the faces of surprised children and angry parents, but that was an aberration. Most years, the Christmas bazaar was the same old beloved town festival it had always been. It seemed like Miranda was doing her best to change that.
I gazed around for a flash of bright-red velvet but didn’t see it anywhere, and that probably wasn’t a bad thing.
Before I forgot, I set aside a Christmas charm bracelet for Gus. I’d had her in mind when I made the romantic charm-packed bracelet, so I went ahead and pulled it and two others.
The noise level in the cafeteria was rising, and almost all the exhibitors appeared set up and ready to roll. Jimmy Buffett’s “Run Rudolph Run” was being piped through the cafeteria’s speakers, and I bobbed up and down to the catchy tune.
“Full of the Christmas spirit, are we?” Trish Delgado, the president of our local arts council, had a twinkle in her eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with that.” I stepped up my shimmying. “If you’d get out of your studio more, you could catch some of this Christmas spirit yourself. And hey, I thought you were supposed to be out in Colorado at a tile workshop this week.”
“Got canceled at the last minute,” my tall, slim friend said. “And I couldn’t see sitting at home when I could be here.” Trish paused and pointed at one of Savannah’s prints before frowning at me. “But why is Savannah’s artwork on the table with your jewelry?”
“It’s a favor for her.” I lowered my voice. “Her space wasn’t as big this year, and I told her I didn’t mind using these as part of my decor.”
Before I could show Trish some of my new designs, a commotion near the entrance had a few of us looking that way. Harriet Harris was jabbing her finger in Miranda’s face, and Miranda looked unfazed.
“Furthermore”—Harriet’s finger was getting closer and closer to Miranda’s nose—“everyone here is disgusted with the way you’ve tried to take over this Christmas bazaar, and I can promise you that you’ll never do it again!”
With Holly lagging behind her, Harriet stomped out of the cafeteria.
“Sheesh.” Trish grimaced. “Wonder what that was all about.”
“No idea, but I’m sure we’ll find out.”
Sure enough, Savannah came up a few minutes later and asked if we’d seen the fracas between Harriet and Miranda.
“How could we miss it?” I straightened a row of costume jewelry rings in a black-velvet-lined box. “That was a pretty public dispute, whatever it was about.”
Savannah’s eyebrows shot up. “I got the scoop. Harriet had just learned that Holly’s registration was never approved. Miranda said it didn’t arrive at the office in time. It was apparently slipped under her office door after five o’clock the day registration closed. Miranda said the bazaar’s website clearly stated that applications had to be in her office by five p.m., and the website also stated that only officially approved exhibitors would be permitted to set up.”
“How were we supposed to know we were ‘officially approved’?” I frowned. “When my credit card payment was processed, I assumed that was as official as it got.”
Savannah shrugged. “I guess Holly never followed up and assumed she would get the spot she requested, and when they got here, Harriet thought she could bulldoze her daughter’s way in—kind of like she’s always done with everything else in town.” She glanced toward the stage. “Looks like we’re about to start. I’m gonna scoot.”
The bad feelings were piling up, and I hardly registered that Johnny Mathis’s “The Christmas Song,” one of my favorites, was playing in the background. Suddenly, my Christmas spirit evaporated. I hoped Miranda’s shenanigans weren’t having that effect on everyone.
A blare sounded over the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen—”
The piercing wail of an overactive PA system caused hands to fly over ears, and heads snapped toward the stage.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but the bazaar is about to open to the public.” Caitlyn Hill, Miranda’s fresh-faced assistant with a stylish asymmetrical blond bob, was all smiles. “We’re just waiting on a few words from our fearless leader, and we’ll be all set. So without further ado, I’m delighted to present... Miranda Hargrove.”
The music crescendoed, and Santa’s wooden sleigh glided onto the stage, pulled by two costumed reindeer. Only these muscular “reindeer” wore red bow ties over their tight white T-shirts and looked more like overdressed Chippendales dancers.
Savannah’s hand flew to her mouth. “Good heavens.”
Biting my lip, I fought the urge to chortle, then I realized the dancers were reaching into Santa’s sack of toys. Out popped Miranda, who flung aside the cape to her Mrs. Claus costume, and the spotlight shone right in the center of the strapless bodice of her tight red-velvet dress. “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” was booming through the loudspeakers. In a moment of spectacular timing, the line about having a cup of cheer came just as Miranda’s more-than-ample cleavage was ogled by the beefcake boys lifting her down to the stage.
Irrationally, perhaps, I recalled the scene in Gone With the Wind in which Scarlett O’Hara swanned into Ashley Wilkes’s birthday party while wearing a thoroughly inappropriate—and similarly low-cut—ruby-red gown. I had a feeling the musical number might just be Miranda’s Scarlett-at-the-birthday-party moment.
“Seriously?” Gus had returned, and she and Savannah traded looks of disapproval. “This is her idea of how a ‘professional’ emcees an event?” Gus turned to me. “Why do women like her think they have to exploit their bodies in order to be successful?”
“Shh.” Savannah twirled a strand of her sleek dark hair. “We don’t want to miss whatever comes next.”
Miranda took the microphone and turned on the charm. With a dazzling smile that was totally at odds with her everyday persona, she welcomed everyone to the bazaar. “And now, ladies and gentlemen”—she gave a coquettish smile—“it is my great privilege to announce that the advance ticket sales have already hit an all-time high, and with that, let’s get this ball rolling.”
Two hunky reindeer lifted Miranda by the elbows and whisked her into the wings as she tossed a peppermint-design beach ball off the stage and into the lunchroom.
“Can you believe that?” Savannah’s eyes were the size of saucers.
“I can’t even.” Gus slowly shook her head.
I couldn’t help snickering. “I’m not convinced Miranda has the greatest stage presence, but I would have paid my entrance fee all over again just to see the expressions on your faces when she popped out of that sleigh.”
“So she nitpicks my display this year but then decides to turn our family-friendly event into a PG-rated affair?”
Savannah was truly scandalized, which I found amusing. And the show was just getting started.
Promptly at ten o’clock, the doors opened. Eager shoppers bustled through, their red plastic tote bags—compliments of the Happy Hometown program—flapping at their sides and ready to be filled with Christmas crafts, gifts, and decor.
My first customers arrived within minutes, and soon I was packaging jewelry sets, answering questions about my designs, and whipping credit cards in and out of my iPad’s card reader. On Dasher! On Dancer! On Visa! On Mastercard!
“You made all of this yourself?” A pretty redhead clasped an eight-inch Ruby & Doris bracelet over a plump hand that already sported rings on four fingers.
“Yes, ma’am. Except for the vintage Christmas tree pins in the case to your left”—I pointed at the display—“every piece here is personally handmade by me.”
The woman tenderly fingered the “charms” on the bracelet—the jeweled remnants of vintage clip-on earrings—and looked as if she might cry. “This shiny crystal one here?” She pointed. “My sweet mother, God rest her soul, wore earrings just like this to church every Sunday.” She wiped away a tear and handed me the bracelet. “I must have this one. And”—she sniffed—“thank you for the trip down memory lane.”
I told the woman to let me know if I could help her with anything else. She must have liked my jewelry, because she bought that bracelet and seven others—for her coworkers at the bank, she said. As she was about to walk away, she whipped out her credit card again and said she wanted two of my vintage Christmas tree pins, both Eisenberg Ice models, for her sister. She was positively giddy by the time I handed her a bright-red shopping bag with my Emma Madison Designs sticker on the front and red polka-dotted tissue paper spilling out.
Some of my regular customers from the arts council gallery stopped by, and later in the afternoon, so did Evelyn Wilson, the longtime receptionist at the Roseland Police Department. Evelyn adored handmade jewelry, and I wasn’t surprised when she began amassing a pile of dangly earrings for her granddaughters. I had gotten to know Evelyn when I was a reporter for the Daily Tribune, and we stayed in touch. I always tucked a little something extra in Evelyn’s bag when she purchased jewelry from me. Since Christmas was coming, I slipped in a silver-soldered charm with a Christmas tree design.
Caitlyn and her band of Christmas elves came around and asked whether I needed a restroom break, but I was fine. During one rare five-minute lull in the action, I pulled out a bottle of water and a protein bar. Just as I finished scarfing down the last peanut-butter-flavored bite, I discovered it was already five o’clock, and the predinner crowd was coming through.
Michele Fairchild, owner of the Feathered Nest gift shop in downtown Roseland, had apparently made a dash for my booth the minute she got there after her shop closed at five.
“Naturally, since I was hoping to slip out early, the shop was busy all afternoon.” Michele rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Murphy’s Law, I guess. Thank goodness one of my part-time girls was able to close for me today.”
Michele flipped through a stack of silver wire bangle bracelets with semiprecious stones. “You made these too?”
I nodded, pleased that the new pieces had captured her attention.
“I wish I had half your talent, Emma.”
“And I wish I knew how to style a display that looked half as good as those in your shop.” Michele was the undisputed merchandising queen of Main Street in Roseland, a shop owner whose windows literally stopped traffic—foot traffic anyway—along the street. The Roseland High School football team had recently won the state championship, and to celebrate their big win, Michele decorated her windows with mannequins decked out in football gear. They appeared to be rushing for gifts in the window, all in team colors of purple and gold.
Michele held up a bracelet. “You know I’ll be happy to take any of these you have left over for the shop, right?”
I was busy replenishing my quickly dwindling stock, but I paused long enough to dip my head in her direction. “Yes, and I appreciate it. I plan to have some things to you by the first of the week, one way or another.”
Michele dedicated a small area of her shop to the work of local artists and crafters. She didn’t charge the hefty commission some stores did, so those of us lucky enough to sell at the Feathered Nest were grateful for the exposure as well as the generous sales policy.
“Okay, I’m ready for you to ring me up.” Michele had her hands full of jewelry. “I’ve got three sterling-silver charms, two of these chunky bead necklaces, and a half dozen wire bangles, I think.”
I wondered if they were for her or for gifts, but I’d learned the hard way never to question how a woman planned to use the jewelry she purchased from me. Early in my jewelry-making career, I’d asked a woman if she was buying all that jewelry for herself, and she’d immediately grown self-conscious and put half the items back. “You’re right. I don’t need to buy all this for me. That’s overdoing things, isn’t it?” she’d said. It paid—literally—to keep my mouth shut.
Michele hustled down the row to shop with the other exhibitors just as some women who worked in administration at the hospital showed up together, and I sold them set after set of matching Christmas beads and earrings. I had a feeling Roseland Medical Center was going to be a sparkly place to work come December.
Savannah fought the five thirty crowds to come over to my table and retrieve her watercolor prints. She’d sold all her others and had promised the last two to a librarian from Atlanta. The woman said she’d come to the Christmas bazaar after reading about it in a post her cousin shared on Facebook.
As Savannah left, she stopped to hug and chat with a handsome dark-haired guy whose denim vest sported a mishmash of dried-paint splotches. He wore stylish jeans and tennis shoes, so it looked like the vest was simply his artist uniform. He was probably some artsy friend of hers, and if he was any good, maybe she could get him to join the arts council. We were almost completely female, and we’d talked about getting more men to serve on our board.
As I tidied up my displays, I was grateful that I’d worn flats. The closer we got to the seven o’clock closing, the more the wear and tear of the day were getting to me. Sales had been brisk, so I was thrilled, but my feet were begging for relief. Those tiled floors in the school cafeteria hadn’t exactly been designed with foot comfort in mind.
Even though I was ready to go home, the show wouldn’t end until the last shopper had checked out. Or at least, that was the way things had always been. Show organizers had never turned a shopper away, even if a few of them always straggled in right at closing time. With Miranda’s newfound insistence on following every jot and tittle of the show’s rules, however, I wouldn’t be surprised if she demanded the doors be hermetically sealed at seven o’clock on the dot.
And where is Miranda anyway? I didn’t remember seeing much of her since the unforgettable opening number that morning. Maybe she’d been behind the scenes, probably scouring registration forms for any discrepancies.
My booth looked as if it had been ransacked, and in a way, it had. As usual, I’d brought far more jewelry than I thought I could sell in a single day, and to my delight, the vast majority of it had disappeared. I wouldn’t be taking much of it home with me, and any leftover Christmas pieces could go to the Feathered Nest. I typed a note on my cell phone, reminding myself to take a small gift to Michele as a thank-you for always giving my jewelry a prominent spot in her shop.
As I finished typing the note, Caitlyn drifted by, craning her neck as she looked up and down the aisle.
I tapped her on the arm. “Looking for someone?”
“Yes, Miranda.” Caitlyn looked puzzled. “No one’s seen her for the last hour or so, and that’s not like her. She’s supposed to announce this year’s best-decorated booth—Judges’ Choice or whatever they call it—as well as the donation to the foster parent association. She was excited about doing that, so I can’t understand why she’s not here already.”
A glance at my watch showed it was almost time for the show to close. “Maybe the judges had a hard time deciding on the winner and she’s waiting for their decision before she comes back to the cafeteria,” I suggested.
“You’re probably right.” Caitlyn twisted a strand of hair as if working off nervous energy. “I think I’ll go check with the volunteer committee just to make sure they haven’t heard from her. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to call it a night and get out of this joint.”
I was surprised by her attitude, but I was tired, too, and Caitlyn had no doubt been there much longer than I had.
As the last of the late shoppers pawed through what was left of my jewelry, I began to pull the totes from beneath the tables and pack up. Several boxes and baskets were totally empty. For anyone in jewelry sales, leaving a show with an empty box and a wide-open expanse of black velvet was ideal. I needed to start making more jewelry as soon as possible.
I checked for phone messages and found one from Jen Davis, editor of the Daily Tribune and, more importantly, my best friend. Todd’s out of town tonight. Want to have dinner at Sombrero at 8?
I texted my reply. Sounds great. Whoever gets there first can claim a table.
As I tucked my phone into my purse, Gus came by with an adorable Yorkie in her arms. “Say Merry Christmas to the nice lady.” Gus waved his little paw for him.
“Merry Christmas to you.” I shook his paw and stroked his soft golden fur. “This little guy is adorable. Is he up for adoption?”
She shook her head. “Mason is actually Gerald’s new puppy, but he brought him to the show after that dustup with Miranda earlier. Frankly, I think it may be a good thing Gerald had to go home and get him. The kids loved him, and we even sold a few Humane Society memberships to parents who were standing around at our booth while their kids petted him.”
“Way to go, boy.” I gently high-fived the little pooch. “I’ve known several guys named Mason, but I don’t know that I’ve ever met a dog named that.”
“It’s because he likes to drink out of Mason jars. At least, that’s what Gerald said.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, couldn’t he get his head stuck in there?”
“Not with Gerald. He said he holds the jar while Mason sips out of it.”
I chuckled and gave the little fellow a final pat before he snuggled back into Gus’s waiting arms.
“I’d better get Gerald’s fur baby back to him. Ciao.”
The screech of the PA system once again had everyone covering their ears and groaning. Somebody really needed to learn how to operate that thing.
“Ladies and gentlemen”—Caitlyn tapped the microphone and got everyone’s attention— “I’m happy to announce that this is our most successful Christmas bazaar ever! We topped the number of visitors from last year by nearly twenty-five percent, and with a sellout on exhibitor registrations and our record-setting attendance—” She paused dramatically. “That means our donation to the foster parent association will be the biggest one ever, more than seven thousand dollars!”
I stopped in the middle of packing up charms to join in the applause. That was fantastic news, and the foster parent group was going to be thrilled with the money, which was arriving just in time to buy Christmas gifts for all the children. How strange, though, that Miranda wasn’t there to revel in yet another moment in the spotlight. But the way the day had gone, we were probably better off the less she was around.
Caitlyn cleared her throat. “As much as we all hate to leave, it’s time to say goodbye, and in an annual tradition that everyone adores, the holiday elves of the Rockin’ Roseland Christmas Bazaar would like to thank you with a musical number fit for the happiest hometown in Georgia! Let’s give them a warm welcome.”
Hmm. Caitlyn’s sure changed her tune from just thirty minutes ago when she was ready to get out of here.
She stepped away from the microphone, and Mariah Carey’s upbeat “All I Want for Christmas Is You” was piped through the loudspeakers. Ten little girls from one of the local dance academies whirled across the stage in sparkling red-and-green costumes, their tulle skirts dotted with sequins and crystals. For small-town Roseland, it was a pretty sophisticated dance number, with the girls smiling at the crowd and clearly enjoying their moment of fame.
It wasn’t The Nutcracker, but the whole auditorium began humming, swaying, and clapping along as the dancers moved to one side while the bazaar’s longtime Santa, Mayor Jim Mathis, slid along the stage next to his sleigh, which had just glided in from stage left behind them.
“Pretty cute, huh?” Savannah whispered. She had sidled up next to me, broken off a piece of candy cane, and popped it into her mouth.
I nodded. “I’m impressed. You’ve got to give Miranda credit for doing what she set out to do. Looks like she’s really pulled it off.”
As the song headed toward its rousing finish, the sleigh came to a halt, and Santa reached inside for his gigantic sack of toys. But Santa huffed as he struggled to lift the lumpy sack over his shoulder, and some in the crowd laughed. The bag was bulky, sure, but I imagined that the wrapped packages were empty boxes and didn’t weigh all that much.
Within seconds, though, it was clear that something was horribly wrong. An ashen-faced Santa quickly lowered his bag to the ground, and it landed with a thud. Santa cried, “Someone call 911!”
A scream came from the wings, and a clearly panic-stricken Caitlyn ran forward and yelled, “Everyone off the stage!”
The dance moms rushed to collect their children while Caitlyn shooed everyone away from the sleigh. “I said everyone off the stage now!”
The screeching loudspeaker abruptly put a halt to Mariah Carey’s tune, and the confused and disappointed-looking children were herded away while Santa knelt by his bag.
Spilling out of it was an arm clad in red velvet with white fur trim around the sleeve. Caitlyn stood near Santa and tried to shield him from the audience with a wooden Christmas tree prop but not before those of us closest to the stage got a glimpse of the lifeless face of Miranda Hargrove.
Santa tossed aside his white gloves before pressing both sides of her neck, no doubt feeling for a pulse. What appeared to be a dark-red cord dangled from her neck, and her glassy eyes stared upward in a grotesque mockery of her usual perfection. Gasps erupted from the crowd, then an eerie silence fell as the same two off-duty policemen who’d been patrolling the parking lot charged into the cafeteria, guns drawn, and ordered everyone to remain in place. Within minutes, two more officers had arrived and were posted at the cafeteria doors. They announced that none of us were to leave the premises.
Miranda had promised us a Christmas bazaar we would never forget. Tragically, she had just delivered it.